He’s your average soldier, who bends his back to demands of an exacting profession. He’s lived in swamps, roasted in deserts, eaten dust, frozen his marrow in Siachen
Photo for representational purpose only
Mercury is used to measure the behaviour of temperature and Bhoop Singh that of your average soldier. What would Bhoop Singh do when faced with such and such a situation? Is this new equipment Bhoop Singh proof? How many calories’ diet will Bhoop Singh require in this terrain? How will Bhoop Singh relay the message of appearance of Halley’s comet to his battalion?
Bhoop Singh is the ideal, or not-so-ideal, average soldier of our Army. Kipling created soldiers like privates Learoyd, Mulvaney and Ortheris. George MacDonald Fraser gave us private McAuslan. It is debatable as to who introduced Bhoop Singh into the lexicon, but certainly the phenomenon needed introducing.
Once I gave a lift to some jawans in my old Maruti 800. When they disembarked, all of them banged shut the doors with such might that the little car nearly overturned. That is your average Bhoop Singh way of doing things. You need everything to be four times multiplied by the ordinary.
In the vein of Kipling’s ‘The Three Musketeers’, Bhoop Singh is the representation of admiration one feels for our average soldier. He is not perfect, not overly educated or overly faux cultured. He is a farming man, a tiller of our ancient earth distinguished by dialect characteristics. Till a few years ago, he would wear his uniform threadbare and get his boot soles patched up by the unit cobbler with pieces cut from airplane tyres. He would self-dye his faded uniform darkest green to make it last and last. He respects and supports the traditions of his regiment. He is thrifty to the depths of parsimony and saves most of his pay which he money orders home. He has a wife, a father and mother and a buffalo to support. His family makes homemade ghee for him to take along after leave. They melt it and fill it in 2-litre Coca-Cola bottles for ease of carriage. He pays bounced-up fees to send his children to ersatz English medium schools that are cropping up fast.
He is part of his company and battalion teams in sports. It’s expected of him and he does not shun the team’s honour. More often than not, he ends up with an injury during his Army career that plagues the rest of his days upon earth but he laughs it off and treats it as a scar of honour.
He is the unwearying boot that carries his country’s arms and stands guard to its Constitution, civilisation and national values, bends his back to the demands of an exacting profession.
Slow talking, infinitely patient and delayed to anger, he spends his life in unknown and remote arenas of conflict, never seen or visited by his countrymen. He is not admitted to the outer doormats of any powerful offices. His profession keeps him away from smalltime fads of preening and self-shining. His duty is to keep his legs strong, aim unwavering, heart staunch and mind sagacious. He has to guard against the insidious call of getting drunk after a hard day’s hill bashing more than required, thereby spoiling his chances of an additional stripe.
This is our Bhoop Singh, your average soldier. He has lived in swamps, roasted in deserts, eaten dust and sand, frozen his marrow in Siachen. He is scarred, resourceful and old shod in soldiering. As George Orwell said, “People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.”